He wanted to live. If he died today, he would never have the opportunity to see Aileen again. Hold her. Make love to her. Make things right by her.
The blood of a warrior filled Niall’s veins. He was a fighter. A soldier. A man of honor. Why hadn’t he fought for her?
He was a bloody fool.
A man came at him, shouting in rage. Face twisted with effort, he swung his sword at Niall’s head. Deftly, Niall ducked the blow and thrust his claymore into the man’s gut. As that one collapsed, screaming, another approached from behind.
For Aileen.
Niall heard every hoofbeat of the horse whose rider was intent on killing him. Niall’s horse sidestepped and veered, giving him the perfect angle to swing a deathblow to the man’s neck.
And so it went.
Then, through the battle haze in his brain, Niall heard a distant shout.
“Go! Fall back! Retreat!”
Hooves pounded as the remaining criminals scattered to the four winds. Niall chased one of them but turned back when the man’s horse disappeared into the brush. Better to stay close to the scene to help anyone who remained.
It was over. Silence, except the wild snorting noises his mount made and the whisper of snow as it slowly blanketed the bloody scene. Pressing his hand to his aching ribs, Niall turned in a circle, scanning the carnage. Everywhere around him, bodies lay in the mud. Horses shuffled and whickered, some streaked with the blood of their riders.
The thieves couldn’t have killed everyone. He couldn’t be the only one still standing.
But he was. In growing panic, he searched the scene. Everything was still. How could it be?
Clenching his teeth against the pain in his side, he dismounted and tethered his horse. Only now did he notice the gilded coat of arms on the wagon. The Mackenzie crest. These men had belonged to the laird.
One by one, he searched the bodies, turning them in the mud. Unbelievably, all the men on the ground, even the fallen highwaymen, were dead. A horrible feeling shuddered down Niall’s spine. He had never been in a battle like this one. Always there were injured men. Survivors. But not here, not today.
He clenched his fists. How had he survived and they all died?
Niall turned away from the last victim, a young man he had seen often at Ellandonan. Earlier, he had found two women. Anger twisted his gut into a knot.
Damned cutthroat thieves. He was sick to the marrow of his bones. Furious that men could be so cruel.
The laird would be enraged.
Through the curtain of snow, the black lacquer of the wagon shone. What could it contain? What could be so important as to have caused all this death? Jewels? Gold? He racked his brain trying to recall what business the Mackenzie had been conducting in the Lowlands.
Whatever it was, Niall was honor bound to return the wagon and its contents to the laird before he went on his way. Further, he must alert the closest village of this massacre and ensure the fallen men were returned home for proper burials.
He walked toward the wagon but stopped short when he heard a scuffing sound inside.
Slowly, he drew aside the heavily oiled curtain that sheltered the contents of the wagon from the rain.
Beyond a pile of rich cushions, the laird’s daughter Margaret cowered in the corner, shuddering visibly, staring up at him with pale blue eyes as round as saucers.
Good God. So focused on his loss of Aileen, he had forgotten Margaret Mackenzie would be traveling in this direction. Her marriage to the Earl of Dolphinton would take place very soon.
He reached for her, but she shrieked, pressing her back against the wall. Niall looked down. Blood dripped from his fingertips. The poor lass must think he was one of the cutthroats.
Snatching back his hand and wiping it surreptitiously on his plaid, he bowed. “Lady Margaret. ’Tis Niall MacRae. I’m one of your da’s guardsmen.”
She wrapped her arms around her body, shaking her head.
“Remember, lass? I saw you in Lady Aileen’s chamber just a few days past.”
“I remember your eyes,” she whispered. But she still didn’t move. “Such deep, deep blue.”
He tried to smile. “I remember your eyes too. Pale blue, like a clear winter’s sky.”
Slowly, so she would know he meant her no harm, he climbed into the back of the wagon.
“They killed everyone, didn’t they?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Aislett?”
This must be one of her ladies. He met her eyes. “Aye, lass. I’m sorry.”
With a great, heaving sob, she flung her arms around him.
Taken aback, he held her, patting her back, mumbling soothing words to her. When she had calmed a little, he said, “I’m taking you home, lass. Home to your da. Home to Ellandonan.”
Home to Aileen. The clarity he’d experienced during the battle hadn’t faded at its end. He’d never been more foolish than when he’d left her.
He loved Aileen. He would fight for her. To the death, if necessary.
“We’re going home,” he murmured.
Chapter Twelve
A second summons from the laird saw Gilbert striding down the corridor angrily. This time had been even more annoying than the last—he had been in the middle of a particularly pleasant interlude with one woman licking his ballocks while the other sucked his cock.
It was a pity the church condemned polygamy. Chuckling, he imagined what it would take to get that ice bitch Aileen to agree to such an arrangement.
She wouldn’t be an ice bitch for long. He’d crack that brittle façade somehow.
No matter. He could still keep as many women as he liked while he was married to her. If she thought she could stop him from fucking whomever he liked, she was not only an ice bitch, she was stupid.
He let the images of breaking her ice carry him into the anteroom of the laird’s bedchamber where a servant announced him to the laird. When summoned forward, he quickly scanned the room, noting that Aileen was nowhere in sight—in fact, only two of the laird’s closest advisors were present.
Hardly managing to bite back a sarcastic comment, Gilbert bowed to the laird, who looked especially tired tonight, with dark, swollen circles beneath his eyes.
“You asked to see me?”
“Aye, I did.”
Gilbert frowned. He didn’t like the hard edge in the laird’s voice or the stillness in his eyes.
“Can I offer you my assistance in any way?” he asked smoothly. But he was on guard, all his senses alert. Something was wrong.
“You can.” Imperiously, the laird thrust out his arm. A written document was instantly placed into his hand.
Gilbert watched, schooling his face to be dispassionate.
Mackenzie held up the document. Gilbert recognized it at once by the two seals at the bottom—the laird’s and his own. It was the contract betrothing him to Aileen. The laird held it by its edges and slowly, deliberately, tore it in two.
“No!” Gilbert leapt forward and snatched the pieces of parchment from the laird’s hands. “You cannot do that! We had an agreement! I helped you secure your little slut’s marriage, I—”
“Nay. I’ve taken something new under consideration, and I’m afraid it precludes you marrying my sister—or any lady in my household.”
Gilbert stared at the bastard, thinking his eyes might pop from his head. It took every ounce of discipline he could muster to keep himself from launching at the laird and pounding that smug, arrogant face into a pulp. How dare he renege on his promise after all Gilbert had done for him.
Gilbert would kill him for that…if he could. He flicked a glance at the two enormous Highlanders flanking the laird, then turned his attention back to their master.
“Why?” His voice was calm and cold as ice.
Mackenzie answered, equally calm. “I dinna like how you speak to my sister. I dinna like how you look at her.” He paused, then said quietly, “I dinna trust you with her, Dunbar. There’s something…no
t quite right about your desire to marry her.”
Gilbert’s lips froze, but he forced the words out. “I have the utmost respect for Lady Aileen.”
The laird cocked his head, retaining that unnerving, emotionless expression. “Nay. I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought. You must agree that without Dornoch, she’s of insignificant value to you—or to me, for that matter. I am indebted to you for your service to me, Dunbar. Surely you cannot be too upset by this turn of events. Surely you know I can offer you something superior to a pregnant widow.”
Despite the protests roaring in his brain, despite his level of fury, Gilbert sure as hell wouldn’t pass up an opportunity for advancement in the world. So he took the proffered chair and sat with the laird to haggle over property and money.
But his mind seethed. He would have Aileen. His life’s goal would be fulfilled. No barbarian Highlander would stop him, powerful laird or not. Gilbert would have her. He would marry her. He would possess her.
Once he and the laird had finished their negotiations, he headed toward his quarters with a determined stride. John Mackenzie could go to hell. Gilbert was taking Aileen.
Tonight.
***
A scratch at the door woke Aileen from a fitful sleep. With great effort, she raised her hand to rub her eyes.
A woman’s sharp voice sounded beyond the door. “Lady Aileen!”
Aileen struggled to sit up. Her room was as dark as pitch. Who on earth would wake her at this hour, and for what reason?
“Lady, please come quickly! ’Tis the laird!”
“The laird?” Had John taken ill?
“Lady Aileen!” came the cry again. The door handle rattled, but Aileen had bolted it before she and Jannet had gone to bed.
“Please come quick!”
Her heart in her throat, Aileen found her plaid and slung it over her shoulders, then slid her hand down the crack between her bed and the wall to find her dirk. She dropped it into a narrow pocket sewn in the inside seam. Just in case.
“Who is that, milady?” asked Jannet sleepily, finally roused by all the noise.
“Hush, Jannet. I’ll see to it.”
In the dark, Aileen felt her way to the door. As soon as she unbolted it, someone from outside flung it open. Aileen stumbled backward, but as she fell, a man grabbed her arm and hauled her against his chest. His arms encircled her torso like steel bands, pressing her arms against her sides so she couldn’t move.
Even if she could move, it would be hopeless. More dark shadows surrounded her. Big shadows. Men. The woman who had called to her was gone—Aileen caught a fleeting glimpse of a skirt as she sprinted down the passageway.
Aileen opened her mouth to scream, but one of the bulky figures shoved a wad of wool into her mouth.
Jannet cried out. “Milady?” But the men surrounded her too, and all Aileen heard were the muffled sounds of a struggle.
She twisted out of the man’s grasp and dove toward the dim light of the doorway. But another shadow appeared there like an apparition and grabbed her shoulders. He shoved her back inside the chamber, stepped in, and shut the door securely behind him before bolting it.
Aileen desperately looked for a way to escape, a way out. But there was nowhere to go. She was trapped.
Still, she was no goose. She’d never give in without a battle. She kicked and scratched, spitting against the gag. She elbowed a man in the gut, taking some pleasure in his groan of pain and subsequent gasps for air.
But she was no match for these men. She counted five of them—at least five, assigned to her alone. She could not see how many held Jannet.
One of the men wrenched her arms behind her back and bound them tightly so the rough ropes dug into the tender skin of her wrists.
Another man loomed over her. Instantly the men holding her slackened their grips, and she dodged once again for the door.
But the man above her was faster. As she tried to dodge around him, he caught her by the waist and pushed her, hard. She went reeling backward, straight into the arms of one of the original captors.
Though she couldn’t discern his features, the sickening mint smell washed over her.
Gilbert Dunbar.
“This ’un’s a wildcat, milord,” one of the men said.
“Indeed,” Gilbert said in his haughty way. He moved aside, gesturing politely at the door. “Well then, shall we?”
Aileen screamed against the gag. She would not move. They would have to force her.
A man prodded her back, but she cringed away, holding her ground.
With a hearty sigh, one of the men lifted her by her waist and slung her over his shoulder, clamping a steely arm behind her thighs so she couldn’t move.
As they filed out of her bedchamber, Gilbert leaned down to whisper into her ear, “You are mine, Aileen. And I’m never going to let you forget it.”
Chapter Thirteen
A stream of morning light blazed over Aileen’s cheek. Tentatively, she cracked open one eye. She lay on the bed of a wagon, on layers of plaids that didn’t keep her from feeling the jolt every time they hit a rut or a bump, nor did they keep the winter cold from seeping into the very marrow of her bones. Every inch of Aileen’s body ached. Her movement was restricted to a few inches because her wrists were lashed to a cleat on the side of the wagon.
She struggled to sit upright, blinking at the watery morning sun.
“She’s awake!” a man called.
The wagon ground to a halt. Clomping hooves signaled a horse’s approach, and she looked up to meet Gilbert’s eyes.
He looked resplendent this morning, high on his sidestepping gelding, dressed in black and haloed by the sun.
Oh, how she despised him.
“Good morning, Lady Aileen. It is a pleasant one, is it not? I suppose we have come far enough south for that blasted Highland fog to clear.”
Blinking hard, Aileen pressed her back against the side of the wagon. “Why have you taken me from Ellandonan?”
Gilbert’s hand flew to his mouth in mock offense. “No sweet words for your future husband? Your future lord and master? Now that is rather rude.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re neither my lord nor my master, Gilbert.”
Gilbert chuckled. “But I shall be, and very shortly.”
“I ask you again, why’ve you kidnapped me? We aren’t to leave Ellandonan until our wedding.”
“You haven’t heard?” Gilbert rubbed his chin. “Now that is rather shocking. I thought he would have told you first. I imagine he would have enjoyed seeing your tears of gratitude.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Why, Aileen, the laird has dissolved our betrothal.”
If she hadn’t been trussed to a wagon heading toward her enemy’s lair, she would have sobbed with relief. Instead, she merely stared at him, dry-eyed and angry.
Gilbert stroked the black mane of his horse and smiled down at her. “But I think it is for the best. I really do. For who knows how long our good laird would have made us wait before we married? This way, we can be wedded—and bedded—within a matter of days.”
“I’ll never allow you to bed me, Gilbert Dunbar,” she whispered. “Never.”
The sound of his laughter tore along her nerves like a deadly sharp claw. “Oh, honestly. I was not aware you were so naive. After all, it’s really not a matter of ‘allowing,’ is it? I will take. Whether or not you choose to give.”
He spurred his horse and moved ahead, still laughing.
***
Dim light filtered through the closed window shutters, but Aileen couldn’t estimate the time—morning and afternoon blurred into long hours of solitude. The air in this tiny tower chamber reeked of mold. Lashed behind her, her bruised wrists ached, her fingers stiff from so long bound in the same awkward position.
How long had it been? Her mind calculated sluggishly. At least three days by now—possibly four.
The lock scraped. Aileen jerked her h
ead up, expecting the friendly face of Mary, the maid who came in to bring her food and empty her chamber pot several times a day. Mary seemed sympathetic but, as every other servant in this place, lived in fear of her master and would do nothing to help Aileen.
But it wasn’t Mary. It was Aileen’s enemy.
Gilbert sauntered in, splendidly clad in a rich green jacket and fine wool breeches. Two of his men flanked him, their angry scowls firmly in place.
Aileen struggled to rise and then, using her feet, pushed herself backward, as far away from him as the little pallet would allow.
“Good morning, my dear.”
The small smile of victory on his face made her pulse flutter desperately, like a butterfly trying to escape the confines of her chest. Something was wrong. Something terrible was about to happen. And she only had one guess as to what it might be.
“Has the laird come for me, then?” Aileen already knew the answer to that question, but she asked anyway in a desperate attempt to buy time. Gilbert planned to touch her today—she saw it in the glint of anticipation in his eyes as they raked over her body. The mere thought of Gilbert’s hands on her made her want to scream.
Gilbert waved his hand in the air. “We’ve been over this, woman. Both you and I know he won’t pursue you. Nor will that guardsman you seem to admire so much. You aren’t valuable enough.”
“I’m the laird’s sister!”
Gilbert lifted a shoulder. “His half sister.”
“He will come for me,” she said stubbornly. In truth, she had no idea whether he would come. What Gilbert said was true—her value to John had decreased to almost nothing once she announced her pregnancy. But she still shared the bond of blood with the laird. She was still his sister, for heaven’s sake. Surely that meant something.
A Naughty Little Christmas (Cowboys, Cops, and Kilts: 8 Seasonally Seductive Romances from Bestselling Authors) Page 39